


Is There Anything Left Of Patton?

by AdrianaintheSnow



Series: Is There Anything Left of Patton? [8]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Angst, Character Death, Illnesses, M/M, Patton is a zombie, Two paragraphs of very slight gore, in a way...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:48:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23867791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdrianaintheSnow/pseuds/AdrianaintheSnow
Summary: …Patton would like to know.
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil Sanders & Morality | Patton Sanders, Logic | Logan Sanders/Morality | Patton Sanders
Series: Is There Anything Left of Patton? [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1639429
Comments: 88
Kudos: 217





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Look I am very proud of this part. Really proud. I’ve been chomping at the bit to post it.
> 
> Thanks to @kieraelieson for betaing
> 
> Also, I'm not sure if any of my readers use screen readers, but there is one part of this that would mess with that. So, I'm going to post a second chapter that gets rid of that. It is exactly the same except I remove that part and replace it with a description of what is happening. I don't think this breaks any AO3 rules, but I will check.

Patton booted up his 60s and 70s playlist on his phone and paused to listen for a few seconds, hoping it would put a little pep in his step. He’d gotten up about an hour later than he usually did with the beginnings of a major headache, but he was hoping he could ignore it and push through. He didn’t bother to boot up his laptop, instead just going through and responding to the most pressing work emails on his phone. His eyes were already straining after that short task, so he closed them and let the phone fall to his chest, trying to focus on the music still coming through the speakers.

He woke up 5 hours later. The headache had not abated, in fact, it had only grown worse. He coughed, hoping the tickle in his throat was just from it being dry and he wasn’t getting sick. He and Lo had plans for the weekend.

The plan had been to do most of the chores today so their weekend would be free; it was half of the reason he was working from home today, but he might have to do an abridged list. The vacuuming and dusting could wait a bit yet and Logan and he could tag team the dishes from this morning when they cleaned up after dinner. Laundry had to be done today if he wanted something to wear tomorrow, but that wasn’t too hard of a task. He also should probably water the plants, especially the one by the armchair; it looked a little dry. Then, he should cook something for dinner before Logan got home. His head throbbed. Maybe just something simple.

He gritted his teeth and sat up. _It’s easy, Patton,_ he told himself, _water the plants, do the laundry, cook._ It was a short list. He could do it.

Okay.

Gather the laundry. Patton had left two of his cardigans strewn about the living room and dining room, so he picked those up on his way to get the laundry from the bathroom upstairs. He put everything into a basket before heading to the laundry room and starting the first load.

Water the plants. He grabbed a pitcher and filled it with water. He started making the rounds but got distracted by one of the Beatle songs that started playing. He was reminded of what he was supposed to be doing when the washing machine buzzed.

Switch the laundry. He took the laundry in the washer and put it in the dryer before adding another load. Then he went back into the living room.

Finish watering the plants. Had he watered the plant in the corner? He couldn’t remember, but even if he had, the plant had been a bit neglected so watering it twice shouldn’t hurt. He watered the plant and then sat down on the couch again.

His headache was getting worse.

He needed to cook something for dinner.

Something really simple then. The washing machine buzzed again while he was thinking about what to make.

Laundry. He grabbed the first load out of the dryer and switched the others. He tossed one of his cardigans on the couch. He figured he’d probably want it later since he’d started to go through phases of hot and cold in the last 30 minutes or so. He stared at the laundry and managed to fold a couple of the important pieces before deciding that was enough for the moment.

Cook. He walked into the kitchen and stumbled when the headache suddenly increased. Black spiderwebs spread out over his vision and he fell, hitting his head on the countertop. He gasped in surprise and pain as he crumpled onto the floor, holding his head. He felt hot all over and cold at the same time suddenly. The cough returned, shaking him completely. He tasted blood.

This was not normal.

He grabbed his phone from his pocket and wasn’t sure if he was having trouble reading the numbers because of whatever was wrong with him or because of the panicked tears building in his eyes. He managed to dial 911 with shaky fingers. He wasn’t sure how he was able to so calmly wait for the operator to answer and then explain what was happening to the best of his abilities. He gave his address and told her he was in the kitchen.

He made the mistake of trying to get back to his feet and sit in one of the kitchen chairs while he waited for the ambulance to arrive. He did manage to make it to his feet, but then everything went black.

He woke briefly to strangers touching him. He did not like it. _Paramedics,_ his brain supplied. He tried to tramp down the overwhelming instinct to struggle against the restraints on him. He’d been strapped to a gurney he assumed, and there was something boxing in his neck. A woman’s face lent over him.

“Hey, there,” she said. “Patton, right? Try not to move,” she requested, as he was being wheeled out of his front door toward the ambulance. “It’ll be fine.” Ironic last words to hear before you die. Ironic last words to say before you die too.

The other paramedic, a man that had been wheeling Patton out of his house, looked up at something behind the woman with a confused, pinched expression. Then, the woman screamed. Blood and bits of flesh splattered all over Patton. The other paramedic screamed too a moment later as the person or thing that had attacked turned its attention on him, dropping the woman’s dead body so it slumped against the gurney and Patton for a moment before sliding slowly down, leaving the feeling of wet, warm blood against Patton’s front and side.

Patton was never touched by the person who had attacked. After all, what would be the point of the virus targeting him when he’d already been infected the day before.

He died 10 minutes later.

…

Sort of.

He awoke (in a way) sometime later. Though, it is perhaps strange to say he woke as his eyes had not been closed and he was somewhat aware that his body had been moving for a long time before then. There was something around his middle and _out out out_ raged at the back of his skull, but that is not what had woken him. No, what had woken him was a much too warm touch on his cold face and the harsh black tingling feeling that crawled like ants up his throat to settle between his teeth.

Patton did not like that feeling. He tried to yank away from it both physically and mentally. Physically there was not far to go as he was still strapped down, but mentally he jerked hard on that foreign desire pulling at him and it retreated a bit. For all the hissing wildness of the urge and his own fractured brittleness of consciousness, it was easy to rein in the instinct and make it freeze in place. Like Patton was a dying tree and it was a balloon whose string got caught in his branches.

The soft touch on his face retreated and what Patton recognized as words were said though none of them settled in Patton’s head enough for him to make sense of them. Soon he felt more touch near where he was restrained. He felt himself squirm without meaning or wanting to. Soon enough, he was free and like a puppet on a string, his body sat up. Then…

Touch. Touch, touch, touch.

It was not something Patton chose to do, in fact he was flickering in and out so much, he didn’t think he could have done it if he’d tried, but his hands were reaching for the warm thing in front of him and grabbing at it. Yet, the touch was soft; that was okay, Patton decided.

After a moment, Patton got soft touches in return, warm hands on his face and careful hands pushing Patton’s own away a bit. There were more words, quick things that left no impressions. Eventually, he was pulled forward with his whole front against the warmth and his mouth was pressed up against something hard and bony like someone’s wrist. He turned his head away a bit displeased with the feel of the thing over his mouth, but he allowed the warmth against most of his front to say. Safe, he thought. Whatever the warmth and soft touches were, they were safe. Safe enough that, while he made sure to keep a good mental grip on the bad instincts still wiggling in his head, he felt like it was okay to fade into nothing once again. He thought he could hear crying as he went.

For a long time after that, he was nothing more than a ghost haunting his own flesh. He barely existed, but for the brief moments he flickered into consciousness to shove the prickling instinct inching in his mouth and throat firmly away.

Other than that, the aching _out out out_ caused by the constant restraints keeping him tethered to the wall, mostly kept him from thinking. He’d tune in sometimes when Soft Touch came to talk to him, but quickly faded away knowing he was safe. Perhaps he did not like the things that held him down, but he knew it was okay. He was okay and that was enough.

Then, suddenly, there was a voice. Soft Touch came with a voice too which always settled familiarly around him, but he was used to it enough that he never paid it much mind. This voice was different though. It had a certain candidness to it and was a bit lower. At the beginning it often rumbled a bit like a growl, but over time it started to soften around the edges, growing kind. It spoke to him a lot and the newness pulled Patton into trying to listen to it more sometimes when he was slightly awake.

One time, after the kind voice had visited and left and visited many times, it suddenly came closer. Things were pressed against him and he did not like that and tried to pull away as much as he could, but then they stopped. Kind Voice spoke from right in front of him for a long time and Patton tried to listen.

“Garden.”

He thought he liked that word. He wasn’t sure why.

He faded back to sleep with that word in his head.

Things were new but not new then as he was taken somewhere different and allowed to be there a lot of the time. The new place was familiar, but he had trouble clinging to why. It was easier to flicker in every so often when he was not tied down, just to see. _Couch. Chair. Picture. Table. Plate._ They weren’t really thoughts, just acknowledgments of things and a slight feeling of familiarity whenever he woke. They drifted away rather quickly.

Eventually, random things would drag him momentarily into consciousnesses with a real almost thought.

A piece of paper: _I need to send that birthday card._

A dropped piece of cheese on the floor: _I really should sweep up soon._

A spoon: _No, I do NOT want the tomatoes._

The plant.

Plant?

But nothing really kept him there for long.

_Armchair. Good. Soft._ There was a clinking from the kitchen and Patton got to his feet, intrigued by whatever had made that, but something tugged him back when he got a couple of feet away. He turned on the thing in agitation, but then stopped short when his eyes landed on the plant in the corner.

_Water the plants. It’s easy Patton. Water the plants. Did he water the plant in the corner? Water the **plant.** Why was he tied to his armchair? **Plant.**_

**_Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant. Plant._ **

A sound, words, snapped him out of the looping. Then there was a smarting of pain and a crash. Then. _Get._ He bit back the bad instinct as he heard Kind Voice making displeased sounds under him.

Eventually things settled, the plant gone from his mind.

For a while.

Patton jerked back into consciousness abruptly as the bad instinct flared up more intensely than it ever had before. _Prey,_ it seemed to say, _and it is asleep. It is vulnerable._

Patton pulled back so hard on the instinct that he almost choked on it, and it dissolved away in his hands. It faded away completely for the first time in forever.

Patton came to with one arm outstretched and a knee on the bed. After a moment of just being there, he completed the motion he hadn’t started and softly touched the sleeping face in front of him with careful fingertips.

Logan.

Exhausted, he crumpled into their bed and was asleep in a matter of seconds.

Patton eventually started to linger nearer to the surface sometimes. He was not quite there, but at the same time _something_ was there. If that thing was Patton, he wasn’t quite sure. It was a strange bridge between the nothing that was usually there and Patton. When there were distractions around, people moving and talking and touching him, he found himself slipping away in the confusion, but when all was quiet, and he was left along with nothing but fractures of thoughts…

His feet stumbled down the steps in the dark. _Need to. Have to. Something. Something. **Something.**_

Plant.

Water the plant.

It did not matter that the plant was no longer there, swept up after its pot was broken weeks before.

It was okay. It didn’t have to be there for Patton to pour water where it once was. Patton wasn’t really there either, after all.

There was a sweater on the back of the couch.

Do the laundry.

He took the sweater to the laundry room and put it in the washer. He pushed the button and was unconcerned when it didn’t make a sound.

…

Had he watered the plant?

Night.

Water the plant.

Laundry in the washer goes into the dryer.

Plant. Where is the plant?

…

Water the plant.

Get the laundry out of the dryer. Too tired to fold. It’s okay, he’ll be cold soon anyway. He’ll just put it down here on the couch… side table… chair.

Wait… whose hoodie is this?

Water the plant.

Again and again and again and again. Like a broken record: round and round. Sometimes he could almost figure out the puzzle before the pieces slipped away.

Patton had been upstairs, his mind drifting to the laundry, but the laundry basket wasn’t where it was supposed to be. He’d been staring at the place it should have been in the bathroom for hours, contemplating the empty space, when there was a loud bang from downstairs. Soon after, there were loud voices, a couple of which he did not recognize. He faded into the background a bit as he was drawn to the noises on instinct.

He didn’t stir again until one of the new voices spoke directly to him.

“Is there anyone alive in there?” a man Patton did not recognize asked. He looked angry and spiteful, but Patton was always good at seeing people’s emotions for what they really were. He was scared. He was scared of Patton, Patton somehow knew, and Patton had never liked people being scared of him. He expected Patton to hurt him, but Patton knew he wouldn’t even when he wasn’t really him anymore. Even if it took up what was left of himself to make it be so. Patton blinked to clear the fogginess at the edge of his vision and looked at the man in front of him.

Is there anyone alive in there?

_Yes._

“Yes,” Patton said. Then, he was gone again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is exactly the same as the last, however, there is a part of the last chapter that would mess with screen readers for the visually impaired. I am putting this edited version up with that in mind.

Patton booted up his 60s and 70s playlist on his phone and paused to listen for a few seconds, hoping it would put a little pep in his step. He’d gotten up about an hour later than he usually did with the beginnings of a major headache, but he was hoping he could ignore it and push through. He didn’t bother to boot up his laptop, instead just going through and responding to the most pressing work emails on his phone. His eyes were already straining after that short task, so he closed them and let the phone fall to his chest, trying to focus on the music still coming through the speakers.

He woke up 5 hours later. The headache had not abated, in fact, it had only grown worse. He coughed, hoping the tickle in his throat was just from it being dry and he wasn’t getting sick. He and Lo had plans for the weekend.

The plan had been to do most of the chores today so their weekend would be free; it was half of the reason he was working from home today, but he might have to do an abridged list. The vacuuming and dusting could wait a bit yet and Logan and he could tag team the dishes from this morning when they cleaned up after dinner. Laundry had to be done today if he wanted something to wear tomorrow, but that wasn’t too hard of a task. He also should probably water the plants, especially the one by the armchair; it looked a little dry. Then, he should cook something for dinner before Logan got home. His head throbbed. Maybe just something simple.

He gritted his teeth and sat up. _It’s easy, Patton,_ he told himself, _water the plants, do the laundry, cook._ It was a short list. He could do it.

Okay.

Gather the laundry. Patton had left two of his cardigans strewn about the living room and dining room, so he picked those up on his way to get the laundry from the bathroom upstairs. He put everything into a basket before heading to the laundry room and starting the first load.

Water the plants. He grabbed a pitcher and filled it with water. He started making the rounds but got distracted by one of the Beatle songs that started playing. He was reminded of what he was supposed to be doing when the washing machine buzzed.

Switch the laundry. He took the laundry in the washer and put it in the dryer before adding another load. Then he went back into the living room.

Finish watering the plants. Had he watered the plant in the corner? He couldn’t remember, but even if he had, the plant had been a bit neglected so watering it twice shouldn’t hurt. He watered the plant and then sat down on the couch again.

His headache was getting worse.

He needed to cook something for dinner.

Something really simple then. The washing machine buzzed again while he was thinking about what to make.

Laundry. He grabbed the first load out of the dryer and switched the others. He tossed one of his cardigans on the couch. He figured he’d probably want it later since he’d started to go through phases of hot and cold in the last 30 minutes or so. He stared at the laundry and managed to fold a couple of the important pieces before deciding that was enough for the moment.

Cook. He walked into the kitchen and stumbled when the headache suddenly increased. Black spiderwebs spread out over his vision and he fell, hitting his head on the countertop. He gasped in surprise and pain as he crumpled onto the floor, holding his head. He felt hot all over and cold at the same time suddenly. The cough returned, shaking him completely. He tasted blood.

This was not normal.

He grabbed his phone from his pocket and wasn’t sure if he was having trouble reading the numbers because of whatever was wrong with him or because of the panicked tears building in his eyes. He managed to dial 911 with shaky fingers. He wasn’t sure how he was able to so calmly wait for the operator to answer and then explain what was happening to the best of his abilities. He gave his address and told her he was in the kitchen.

He made the mistake of trying to get back to his feet and sit in one of the kitchen chairs while he waited for the ambulance to arrive. He did manage to make it to his feet, but then everything went black.

He woke briefly to strangers touching him. He did not like it. _Paramedics,_ his brain supplied. He tried to tramp down the overwhelming instinct to struggle against the restraints on him. He’d been strapped to a gurney he assumed, and there was something boxing in his neck. A woman’s face lent over him.

“Hey, there,” she said. “Patton, right? Try not to move,” she requested, as he was being wheeled out of his front door toward the ambulance. “It’ll be fine.” Ironic last words to hear before you die. Ironic last words to say before you die too.

The other paramedic, a man that had been wheeling Patton out of his house, looked up at something behind the woman with a confused, pinched expression. Then, the woman screamed. Blood and bits of flesh splattered all over Patton. The other paramedic screamed too a moment later as the person or thing that had attacked turned its attention on him, dropping the woman’s dead body so it slumped against the gurney and Patton for a moment before sliding slowly down, leaving the feeling of wet, warm blood against Patton’s front and side.

Patton was never touched by the person who had attacked. After all, what would be the point of the virus targeting him when he’d already been infected the day before.

He died 10 minutes later.

…

Sort of.

He awoke (in a way) sometime later. Though, it is perhaps strange to say he woke as his eyes had not been closed and he was somewhat aware that his body had been moving for a long time before then. There was something around his middle and _out out out_ raged at the back of his skull, but that is not what had woken him. No, what had woken him was a much too warm touch on his cold face and the harsh black tingling feeling that crawled like ants up his throat to settle between his teeth.

Patton did not like that feeling. He tried to yank away from it both physically and mentally. Physically there was not far to go as he was still strapped down, but mentally he jerked hard on that foreign desire pulling at him and it retreated a bit. For all the hissing wildness of the urge and his own fractured brittleness of consciousness, it was easy to rein in the instinct and make it freeze in place. Like Patton was a dying tree and it was a balloon whose string got caught in his branches.

The soft touch on his face retreated and what Patton recognized as words were said though none of them settled in Patton’s head enough for him to make sense of them. Soon he felt more touch near where he was restrained. He felt himself squirm without meaning or wanting to. Soon enough, he was free and like a puppet on a string, his body sat up. Then…

Touch. Touch, touch, touch.

It was not something Patton chose to do, in fact he was flickering in and out so much, he didn’t think he could have done it if he’d tried, but his hands were reaching for the warm thing in front of him and grabbing at it. Yet, the touch was soft; that was okay, Patton decided.

After a moment, Patton got soft touches in return, warm hands on his face and careful hands pushing Patton’s own away a bit. There were more words, quick things that left no impressions. Eventually, he was pulled forward with his whole front against the warmth and his mouth was pressed up against something hard and bony like someone’s wrist. He turned his head away a bit displeased with the feel of the thing over his mouth, but he allowed the warmth against most of his front to say. Safe, he thought. Whatever the warmth and soft touches were, they were safe. Safe enough that, while he made sure to keep a good mental grip on the bad instincts still wiggling in his head, he felt like it was okay to fade into nothing once again. He thought he could hear crying as he went.

For a long time after that, he was nothing more than a ghost haunting his own flesh. He barely existed, but for the brief moments he flickered into consciousness to shove the prickling instinct inching in his mouth and throat firmly away.

Other than that, the aching _out out out_ caused by the constant restraints keeping him tethered to the wall, mostly kept him from thinking. He’d tune in sometimes when Soft Touch came to talk to him, but quickly faded away knowing he was safe. Perhaps he did not like the things that held him down, but he knew it was okay. He was okay and that was enough.

Then, suddenly, there was a voice. Soft Touch came with a voice too which always settled familiarly around him, but he was used to it enough that he never paid it much mind. This voice was different though. It had a certain candidness to it and was a bit lower. At the beginning it often rumbled a bit like a growl, but over time it started to soften around the edges, growing kind. It spoke to him a lot and the newness pulled Patton into trying to listen to it more sometimes when he was slightly awake.

One time, after the kind voice had visited and left and visited many times, it suddenly came closer. Things were pressed against him and he did not like that and tried to pull away as much as he could, but then they stopped. Kind Voice spoke from right in front of him for a long time and Patton tried to listen.

“Garden.”

He thought he liked that word. He wasn’t sure why.

He faded back to sleep with that word in his head.

Things were new but not new then as he was taken somewhere different and allowed to be there a lot of the time. The new place was familiar, but he had trouble clinging to why. It was easier to flicker in every so often when he was not tied down, just to see. _Couch. Chair. Picture. Table. Plate._ They weren’t really thoughts, just acknowledgments of things and a slight feeling of familiarity whenever he woke. They drifted away rather quickly.

Eventually, random things would drag him momentarily into consciousnesses with a real almost thought.

A piece of paper: _I need to send that birthday card._

A dropped piece of cheese on the floor: _I really should sweep up soon._

A spoon: _No, I do NOT want the tomatoes._

The plant.

Plant?

But nothing really kept him there for long.

_Armchair. Good. Soft._ There was a clinking from the kitchen and Patton got to his feet, intrigued by whatever had made that, but something tugged him back when he got a couple of feet away. He turned on the thing in agitation, but then stopped short when his eyes landed on the plant in the corner.

_Water the plants. It’s easy Patton. Water the plants. Did he water the plant in the corner? Water the **plant.** Why was he tied to his armchair? **Plant.**_

**_Plant (x602 times)_ **

A sound, words, snapped him out of the looping. Then there was a smarting of pain and a crash. Then. _Get._ He bit back the bad instinct as he heard Kind Voice making displeased sounds under him.

Eventually things settled, the plant gone from his mind.

For a while.

Patton jerked back into consciousness abruptly as the bad instinct flared up more intensely than it ever had before. _Prey,_ it seemed to say, _and it is asleep. It is vulnerable._

Patton pulled back so hard on the instinct that he almost choked on it, and it dissolved away in his hands. It faded away completely for the first time in forever.

Patton came to with one arm outstretched and a knee on the bed. After a moment of just being there, he completed the motion he hadn’t started and softly touched the sleeping face in front of him with careful fingertips.

Logan.

Exhausted, he crumpled into their bed and was asleep in a matter of seconds.

Patton eventually started to linger nearer to the surface sometimes. He was not quite there, but at the same time _something_ was there. If that thing was Patton, he wasn’t quite sure. It was a strange bridge between the nothing that was usually there and Patton. When there were distractions around, people moving and talking and touching him, he found himself slipping away in the confusion, but when all was quiet, and he was left along with nothing but fractures of thoughts…

His feet stumbled down the steps in the dark. _Need to. Have to. Something. Something. **Something.**_

Plant.

Water the plant.

It did not matter that the plant was no longer there, swept up after its pot was broken weeks before.

It was okay. It didn’t have to be there for Patton to pour water where it once was. Patton wasn’t really there either, after all.

There was a sweater on the back of the couch.

Do the laundry.

He took the sweater to the laundry room and put it in the washer. He pushed the button and was unconcerned when it didn’t make a sound.

…

Had he watered the plant?

Night.

Water the plant.

Laundry in the washer goes into the dryer.

Plant. Where is the plant?

…

Water the plant.

Get the laundry out of the dryer. Too tired to fold. It’s okay, he’ll be cold soon anyway. He’ll just put it down here on the couch… side table… chair.

Wait… whose hoodie is this?

Water the plant.

Again and again and again and again. Like a broken record: round and round. Sometimes he could almost figure out the puzzle before the pieces slipped away.

Patton had been upstairs, his mind drifting to the laundry, but the laundry basket wasn’t where it was supposed to be. He’d been staring at the place it should have been in the bathroom for hours, contemplating the empty space, when there was a loud bang from downstairs. Soon after, there were loud voices, a couple of which he did not recognize. He faded into the background a bit as he was drawn to the noises on instinct.

He didn’t stir again until one of the new voices spoke directly to him.

“Is there anyone alive in there?” a man Patton did not recognize asked. He looked angry and spiteful, but Patton was always good at seeing people’s emotions for what they really were. He was scared. He was scared of Patton, Patton somehow knew, and Patton had never liked people being scared of him. He expected Patton to hurt him, but Patton knew he wouldn’t even when he wasn’t really him anymore. Even if it took up what was left of himself to make it be so. Patton blinked to clear the fogginess at the edge of his vision and looked at the man in front of him.

Is there anyone alive in there?

_Yes._

“Yes,” Patton said. Then, he was gone again.


End file.
